Notes On a Blight
by WhitethornWolf
Summary: Drabbles, set during the Fifth Blight. Companion series to Fortune Favour Me.
1. Impulse

"Be quiet," Eilin hissed as the bed creaked loudly. "I don't want my parents to hear us."

Dairren pulled the tangle of blankets away from his legs and followed her around as she lit a candle and set it on a side table.

"Are you sure you want to do this?" he asked for the fifth time since he'd arrived at her door. "If your father found out-"

"He won't," she said shortly. Turning to face him, she began to undo the laces on her chemise. "I won't be sold off like a bloody cow at the markets. We're doing this. Unless," she added, casting him a sideways glance, "you don't want to."

"No, I-I do," he responded, the tips of his ears turning red. "I just-I am sure that wouldn't happen to you."

"I overheard him talking with Mother," Eilin said. She began to undo the buttons on his shirt, resisting the urge to squirm away when his hand slid through her hair. "He's going to marry me off soon."

"Did he say to whom?"

She didn't miss the casual curiosity in his voice. "One of Arl Howe's sons, probably. Does it matter? I won't be left at the mercy of some spoiled, overeager noble's son. I'd rather you." Leaving him to shrug off his shirt, she pulled at the laces on his pants.

"I've dreamed about this," Dairren murmured as she stepped back and removed her chemise. A blush burned on her cheeks and her breath hitched as he pulled her closer, a lightly calloused hand brushing her breast.

"Mmm-hmm." Eilin tugged on his waistband. "Take these off, Dairren."

"To think that I would actually be-that you asked me-"

"Your pants, please."

He obliged her, removing them and taking her hand. "I've done this before. You don't have to worry. I won't hurt you."

"I know." She gently pulled her fingers out of his grip and got into the bed with as much dignity as she could muster. "I'm sure you know what to do from here."


	2. Unyielding

"She fares badly," Bann Franderel said.

Duncan watched from the doorway as the elven servant wiped Eilin's sweating face with a wet cloth. The bedchamber was dark, the curtains drawn and the bed dishevelled where the girl had kicked the covers off in a fever dream.

Not three days ago he and Eilin had fled Highever with Howe's soldiers hot on their trail-but as their pursuers gave up the chase, the young Cousland's injuries had taken infection. She bore the pain in silence until she'd fallen in a swoon upon the road, and Duncan was forced to take her to West Hill. He knew nothing of the allegiances of Ferelden lords, but Bann Franderel had taken them willingly into his household and commanded his servants to tend the injured girl.

"It's a miracle she survived at all," Franderel said, when Duncan didn't reply. "Teyrn Cousland was a good man. To see the entire family fall to treachery...disturbing, indeed."

Duncan watched with a frown as Eilin's hand lashed out clumsily, swatting the cloth away.

"No more," she gasped. "Fergus-I need to-"

Turning, Franderel lead the Grey Warden back down the corridor.

"I assume you are not staying?" he murmured.

"No." Rubbing his beard, Duncan barely glanced at the man. "We go south to Ostagar."

The bann frowned. "Even with Lady Cousland so ill?"

"With or without her, if I must."

If the girl's condition hadn't been so dire, Duncan would have passed by West Hills entirely and sought help from the mages at Kinloch Hold. As it was, the king was expecting him at Ostagar in a month, and he'd been delayed three days already. If her condition didn't improve, he would have to leave her-which meant fewer Grey Wardens to fight the darkspawn.

As he was contemplating the possibility, the door to the sick room opened with a bang and the servant gave a surprised cry.

"My lady, please! You shouldn't be out of bed!"

Eilin leaned heavily on the door frame and raked her dishevelled hair from her face.

"Duncan," she said, her voice rough with exhaustion. "We need to leave."

"You're ill, child." Frowning, Bann Franderel waved away the servant, casting a critical eye over the girl's flushed cheeks and watering eyes. "You must not over-exert yourself."

"I'm fine!" Eilin insisted, defiantly, pushing herself away from the door. She took a few wobbling steps into the hall, straightening with difficulty and wiping her forehead. "It's just a fever. We can't delay here any longer, and I can ask the mages for healing at Kinloch Hold."

"The Circle of Magi is still a four day journey," Duncan replied, regarding her with an appraising look. "You may not have the strength for travel."

"I won't die," she replied, her jaw set. "I made a promise."


	3. Propriety

He didn't mean to watch her more closely than the other Grey Warden recruits, but she was...an interesting woman, to say in the least.

He had spent time with Daveth and Ser Jory around the camp-if truth be told, less time with Daveth and more with Jory-and he knew both their stories, as much as they would tell. Daveth was a cutpurse, the sort of man that dwelled in the seedy underbelly of Denerim, which was admittedly a place Alistair knew little about. Jory was a knight from Redcliffe, who had served under Arl Eamon before being recruited.

This new recruit he knew absolutely nothing about. Duncan had been uncharacteristically vague in his letter, stating only that her name was 'Eilin', that she came from Highever on the north coast, and that she had some skill with a blade. Not that it was Alistair's business to know everything about her. He suspected, though, that Duncan had got her out of some trouble. She was jumpy, flinching at sudden movements and loud noises, and whenever people got too close; and the only person she'd said more than a few words to was Duncan. She'd arrived dressed more like a peasant than a soldier, and then there were the half-healed wounds.

Not that it really mattered, Alistair thought, as he observed her cleaning her blades across from him. Grey Wardens took whoever they could get-criminals and thugs included. Duncan had obviously gone to some trouble to recruit her, so there must be something about her Alistair hadn't seen-yet.

Well, that wasn't entirely true. She _was _pretty, and that hadn't escaped his notice. But he could keep that to himself, couldn't he?

"Take your hands off me!"

Alistair glanced up in time to the see the subject of his curiosity give Daveth a shove, sending the man sprawling on the ground near the log she sat on.

She stood up, clutching her newly polished dagger in one hand, and glared at Daveth as he propped himself up on one elbow.

"Spirited thing, ain't she?" the thief said to Jory and Alistair, who were watching with raised eyebrows.

"You want to see spirited?" Eilin said coldly, and leveled the dagger at him. "I can show you, if you like."

"There's no need for that," Alistair said.

She glanced at him in surprise, almost as if she'd forgotten he and Jory were watching. Finally she sheathed her dagger and offered a hand to the thief, who took it warily.

"I am a recruit, same as you," she said. "I am not here for your entertainment."

"Got it," Daveth replied, still with that same grin. "Loud and clear."

"Good."

_Well_, Alistair thought as she stalked away. Maybe he did know what Duncan saw in her after all.


	4. Dressing Down

"What in the Maker's name are you wearing?"

The words were out of Alistair's mouth before he could stop himself, loud enough for half the camp to hear.

Eilin paused with her hand on the laces of her dress, glancing up with her eyebrows raised.

"I beg your pardon?"

"I...uh- I...that -" he gestured vaguely at her, sure that his ears were burning. "You can't fight darkspawn in that."

"Luckily, I'm only going into town," she replied without pause, deft fingers lacing her bodice. "That's not half as dangerous, right?"

"Well, I don't know. If you're going in that, it might be."

"Aww. You're just jealous." Eilin knotted her sash, affixed her belt pouch and flashed him a grin. "I'd let you wear the dress, but you'd fill it out too well."

He had to grin at that. "Can't have that, can we?"

She looked...odd out of her armour; he mightn't have recognised her if it weren't for the mane of unruly hair she was forcing back with pins. He spotted Leliana out of the corner of his eye, dressed in her Chantry robes. "You're taking Leliana with you?"

"Who better to protect my virtue than a cunning lay sister?" Smiling, she patted his arm. "I'll be fine. I'm not unarmed, and I'll only be gone a few hours. You needn't worry." She stepped back and twirled on the spot with a dramatic flourish. "What do you think? Am I plain enough?"

"You are anything but plain," he blurted, and felt his cheeks grow hot. She smiled; not the friendly grin she gave him sometimes when he made a joke. Her smile was open and warm, and it suddenly struck him that he'd never seen her smile like that, not since...well, since ever, and certainly not at anyone else. The realisation settled in his chest, warm and heavy, and his returning grin was sheepish.

"Flatterer," she said, mouth twisting wryly, and then suddenly her arms were around his neck, and he tried to return the embrace clumsily, but she was already pulling away. "You're sweet, you know that?"

"Sweet isn't quite...what I've been told," Alistair said weakly as she moved away, lifting her skirts free of a puddle from last night's rain. "Suave, maybe. Charming, even."

Eilin glanced back over her shoulder and flashed him a quick grin. "You're sweet enough."

He watched her until she and Leliana disappeared from view.


	5. Revelations

"Eilin. Come on. You aren't that mad, are you?"

"Go away."

"Oh, that's very mature of you." Alistair leaned forward on the table and leaned his head on one arm. "Fine. I'll just sit here and bother you until you talk to me."

Eilin took another swig of her mead and gave him a glare that, being a little unfocused, didn't have quite as much effect.

"You didn't tell me you were King Maric's son," she said accusingly.

Alistair sighed heavily, and drained the rest of his ale. Why couldn't the others have stuck around to rescue him from the drunk, crazy Warden?

Well, maybe drunk and crazy was a little harsh. He had dropped a revelation into her lap only yesterday, and since then she'd barely talked to him, seemingly wrapped in her own thoughts, or preferring to talk to Bann Teagan than him.

He shoved away the spark of jealousy that followed, and caught her hand as it crept towards her cup of mead.

"Look," he said in a low voice. "I'm sorry I didn't tell you about my father. I am. Really."

Eilin narrowed her eyes, and he winced.

Maker, if looks could kill…remember, man, honesty is the best policy. Or something like that.

"I guess part of me was hoping you would…like me for who I am, and not for my blood."

It worked. Her expression softened, and she stopped trying to twist her fingers out of his grasp. For a moment their gazes locked. Then she sighed, and entwined her fingers with his.

"I do like you," she said grudgingly. "I thought that was obvious."

Alistair pulled his hand away just as the moment turned awkward, and grinned as Eilin's hand closed around her cup.

"But," she said, and took another gulp of mead, "if you think you're getting out of guard duty with the 'royal bastard' excuse, you can think again."


	6. Bittersweet

The ruined temple was beautiful in its severity and emptiness, and just the sort of thing one might find near a cold, lonely place like Haven.

The legends said Andraste's tomb sat atop one of the Frostback Mountains, and sure, they were up high enough-so high the air whipped their cloaks back and forth and tore at their hair, and breathing became an effort.

High enough, apparently, for a dragon to make its home in the jagged cliffs surrounding the Gauntlet.

It was a strange thing, to speak with something less than a man but not quite a spirit. Even more so when it spoke of things no-one could possibly know, and asked questions Eilin would rather not answer in front of her companions. Long minutes of awkward silence followed that particular exchange, and she imagined their puzzled stares boring into her back, curious and judging and-worst of all-pitying.

Ghosts whispering riddles, puzzles and contraptions followed them deeper into the Gauntlet. Andraste only favoured the clever, Alistair joked, and he wasn't far off the mark. Eilin pushed their group onward, almost hurriedly, as if to get away from the memory of the Guardian's words ringing in her ears.

Everything came to a halt when Father appeared to her.

Logic told her it wasn't really Father, but a spirit, but it was strange how even its mere appearance unnerved her.

The others had never seen her father, but she had a feeling they knew, even before she accused the spirit-demon-whatever it was-of mocking her father's memory.

It spoke to her, and-blessed Andraste-it even sounded like him.

"You must not grieve for me," he said. "You must let go of that pain, and move on."

She wanted to scream at him. But instead she was rooted to the spot, staring at him mutely and aching to shake his shoulders and touch his face, to remind herself that he had once been real.

"My dearest child," Father called her, and told her to be strong. Then he was gone.

The tears came as she knew they would, and Eilin could only stare at where he had disappeared, one hand still outstretched as if to stop him from leaving. The other clutched an amulet he'd given her, and her palm tingled where his fingers had touched her with the barest hint of warmth across her skin.

Be strong, Father said. She couldn't have felt weaker if she tried.


	7. Coercion

"Eilin. Eilin."

She can hear him, he knows she does—her brows furrow just a little and her mouth quirks at the petulant sound of his voice. He's putting on an act, especially to get her attention, and he would never get away with it if it were someone else. But it's her, and she simply continues on stitching her shirt with an air of feigned innocence.

"Hey, Eilin. I-l-e-n."

Her head snaps up like he knew it would—one thing she is picky about is the spelling of her name, and Alistair grins, pleased to get a reaction. Finally she heaves a sigh and holds out her hand. "Give it to me."

Alistair passes her the socks. Well—one could call them socks, if you used a bit of imagination.  
"Maker's breath," Eilin mutters as she threads her needle. "Just how do you get all these holes in your socks?"

"Well, there's a story," Alistair responds, and shuffles beside her. He rests his chin on her shoulder and wraps an arm around her lower back. She leans against him and begins to stitch.  
"When I was in the Chantry, there were a few hours in each day when the initiates would get time to themselves. To, you know, study or…pray…whatever it is good little templars do."

Eilin snorts, though she doesn't look up.

"Anyway." Alistair tucks a wayward lock of hair behind her ear. "Some of the initiates and I used to have footraces. In our socks, you see," he adds, "because the sound of boots stomping up and down the hall would have brought the priests down on us."

"That was years ago," Eilin replies, glancing at him as she moves onto the next hole. "Please tell me these socks aren't that old."

"No," Alistair says sheepishly, "but one night at Redcliffe, I couldn't sleep, and…"

The sock hits him in the face, and Eilin holds out the needle and thread.  
"I will not be party to your sock-wasting antics," she says sternly.

Blast it. For a moment, he thought he'd had her.


	8. Justice

The sound of a dying man's last breath was the sweetest sound in the world at that moment.

She took a step back, blood pooling around her boots, and stared at what remained of the arl of Denerim. She'd always known he was just a man, but in death he seemed even less than that — a shrunken thing that twisted and flopped as she drove her sword through muscle and sinew and bone. Like a fish out of water, she thought, as she wiped her blade on her uniform. She closed her eyes and sucked in a trembling breath, and tried to calm her thundering heart.

It would not bring her peace, not yet. But maybe her family could rest easier now.

"Eilin?"

A touch on her elbow made Eilin look around, but the grip was not firm enough to startle her.

"We should leave," Leliana murmured. "If anyone alerts the city guard, we might not escape so easily."

Eilin nodded wearily. "Yes, you're right. I don't want to stay here any longer."

She took one last look at Howe's corpse, and resisted the urge to spit on him. It was beneath her. Instead, she gave the body a vicious kick.

"Eilin," Leliana repeated, raising her eyebrows.

"The bastard died far too easily," she said by way of explanation, and brushed past her. "Let's go. Justice is done, at least in part."


	9. Heedless

"I can dance," Eilin said. "I just don't want to."

The music floated around their campfire, setting a rhythm even Alistair could tap his feet to, and he wasn't the only one. The field was dotted with similar fires, and all around him people were rising. There were more soldiers than he'd ever seen since Ostagar, and he was their king. The thought was sobering.

"But why not?" Leliana asked. She pouted - something Alistair knew definitely didn't work on Eilin - not that he'd tried or anything. "The night is young, and there's music. A perfect time for dancing, don't you think?"

He expected Eilin to refuse again, citing tiredness or reputation - one he understood, one he didn't - but instead she rolled her eyes and stood up, grumbling about how impossible it was to dance in trousers.

If impossible meant the exact opposite, perhaps she would have been right. Still, he thought she looked graceful even in her old tunic and breeches. Or maybe he was biased. She was smiling for the first time in a week, and that was good enough for him.

As Eilin whirled, hand-in-hand with Leliana, Zevran stood.

"You are full of surprises, Warden," he said, and offered his hand. She took it, laughing, and put her arms around him.

He watched her dance, first with Zevran, then with Oghren, then with Bann Teagan. Finally courage won out over stubbornness and he accosted her halfway through a spin.

"I thought you didn't like dancing," she laughed as he spun her.

"I never said that. Just that I wasn't good at it." Alistair drew her close, nose bumping her cheek, and tried to remember which foot to put first.

"Spin me again," Eilin said and he obliged, laughing when she twirled with a ridiculous flourish. "You'll have to learn this when you become king, you know."

"Really?" Alistair replied. "And here I thought being king was all writing laws and settling disputes."

"You get to have some fun. It's not all paperwork. You can't rule a kingdom just by looking stern, or Loghain would have done a lot better."

"Oh, don't even joke about that."

"Who's joking? A king needs to be many things." Without letting him reply she turned her head and kissed him, and he responded without thinking, flushing as he heard titters from their group.

"What about our audience?" he whispered when they broke apart.

"I don't care," Eilin said.

"But Bann Teagan -"

"We're going to be married, Alistair. A few kisses are expected, at the very least."

She had a point there. He let himself be drawn into another kiss, trying not to be too embarrassed when someone wolf-whistled.

"Ignore it," she said, and put her arms around his neck. "And just dance."


	10. Sweet Enough

Alistair poked suspiciously at the pale, lumpy-looking substance in his bowl.

"What is it?"

"Didn't the Chantry sisters tell you not to play with your food?" Eilin said, and raised an eyebrow at him.

"Yes, alright, but what is it?"

"It's a pear and custard tart." Eilin took a spoonful from Alistair's bowl and popped it into her mouth, her eyes twinkling. "Try it, it's good."

"It looks…odd."

When he continued to stare at the dessert, she rolled her eyes and took another spoonful. "It's Orlesian. What do you expect?"

"You have a point." Alistair took a tentative mouthful and grimaced. "Urgh. Too sweet."

"That just means you're already sweet enough," Eilin said, and stole another mouthful, laughing through the mouthful of custard as he smacked her hand away. "Me? I'm not. I need to eat this stuff more often."

Alistair smirked. "No, sweet isn't exactly what I'd call you. Well—not after last night, anyway."

She choked on the next mouthful, and he pulled the bowl out of her reach. "Away with you, thief! My custard."


	11. Perspective

"Poison is an assassin's weapon," Eilin said, and eyed the collection of vials laid out before her.

If Zevran was offended, he didn't show it.

"Just so," he said. He uncorked a vial and held it out to her. "Soldier's Bane. Just one cut from a coated blade will kill a grown man in minutes."

She took care not to inhale too deeply, but she didn't need to - its bitter smell was strong enough to wrinkle her nose. No sooner did she hand it back than he had another in his hand.

"Adder's Kiss. An effective poison in food or drink, but even more lethal on a blade."

"I'm pretty sure darkspawn don't eat."

"Ah, but they do have flesh. If a man can be killed by a poisoned blade, why not a darkspawn?" Zevran deftly plucked the vial from her hand, corked it, and carefully placed it in a row with the others. His eyes met hers, and he chuckled at her expression of distaste.

"Have you ever killed a person, Warden?"

"Yes," Eilin said uneasily, "but I didn't have much choice at the time."

"But you would choose not to, if you could."

She shrugged. "I'd rather stick to killing darkspawn. And not with a poisoned blade. It seems like... I don't know. Cheating."

"Cheating?" Now Zevran did look offended. "Dead is dead, Warden. Whatever means you have at your disposal, you use. That is what I was taught by the Crows."

"The Crows being assassins," Eilin began to reply, then stopped. It suddenly seemed ridiculous to argue what was merely one means to an end.

"Do all these poisons hasten death?" she asked instead.

"Not all," he replied. "Some prolong death - the Crows use this when they want to shift the blame, as it were."

"But I thought they were infamous in Antiva."

"Infamous, yes - but occasionally it is prudent to deflect focus from our activities. It makes assassinating our targets easier."

"Uh-huh," Eilin said. "Assassinating people makes assassinating other people easier."

"Now you understand," he replied seriously. But his eyes were twinkling, and after putting away the vials he stood up, and offered his hand to her. "Never let it be said that the Crows are not creative."


End file.
